


Bringing It All Home

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Community: sentinel_thurs, M/M, Sentinel Thursday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2020-03-08 19:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18901327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: Blair gets back from grocery shopping. His return doesn't quite go as planned.





	Bringing It All Home

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 518 'first of the year' 
> 
> (In my defense, if I remember right, the challenge response could include any "first." Which Jim employs at the end, in a way? I may have overreached on this one...)

The elevator was out of order. Blair scowled at it for a moment before he started up the stairs, juggling the grocery bags in his arms and muttering, "Hey, Jim. Fifty million bags of groceries here. Get the door, okay?" under his breath.

He was puffing a little by the time he reached the third floor — the number of grocery bags to number of steps ratio sucked — but at least Jim had gotten the door. Actually, Jim had not only gotten the door, he was standing just outside it in the hallway, leaning against the wall, with his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed.

"A little help here?" Blair said, exasperated, as he neared the doorway. Fifty million bags of groceries may have been a slight exaggeration, sure, but he was definitely overloaded, and half the bags were threatening to slip out of his arms.

"Or no help at all." Jim wasn't saying a word, just standing there like a statue and propping up the wall — what was up with that? — so Blair answered his own question, feeling his exasperation level amp up a little. It amped up even more when he had to tighten his hold on a bag that was making a particularly determined attempt to escape. "It's not like you're planning on eating any of the sausage and four-cheese lasagna I'm making for us Friday night, anyway, right? Or having eggs for breakfast tomorrow, or turkey on rye for lunch?" he added, throwing in a glare for good measure. "What is with you?" He brushed past Jim, somehow managing to make it to the kitchen and dump the bags onto the counter before any of them were successful in their bids for freedom. 

"You were singing. In the car."

Blair didn't turn at the sound of Jim's voice, even though there was a note in it that hit him low in the belly, and _oh,_ yeah, right. But the groceries weren't going to put themselves away, and after that fun-filled trip up the stairs he had a personal investment in their health and well-being, even the artery-clogging crap he'd bought to make Jim happy.

Singing? Right. Singing. "I was?" he said. Yeah, he'd been singing along with the car radio, even if he didn't remember now what song he'd been singing along with.

"You borrowed my aftershave this morning."

Jim's voice sounded closer, and that note in Jim's voice was getting harder to ignore. Blair tried to ignore it anyway and started sorting through the groceries. "Yeah, sorry. I ran out. Hope you don't mind, man."

"You didn't throw away those jeans."

Blair glanced down, involuntarily, at his jeans, at the faded, soft denim and the frayed spots and the rip just above one of his knees, the rip that kept gradually getting bigger. "Nope," he said. He cleared his throat. "I thought you liked them."

"You know I do." Jim's voice — and Jim — were right _there_ now, just behind Blair's back, and Jim's voice was a warm growl in Blair's ear, and the refrigerator handle was digging into Blair's hip — when had he turned around and gotten pressed up against the refrigerator? — and Jim's hands were demanding, hot and demanding and —

Shit. Duty called. Okay, a couple of pints of Ben and Jerry's called; Blair was _invested_ in those pints of Ben and Jerry's, in the carton of free-range, organic eggs, in the rib-eye he'd bought for Jim (or — honestly? — for both of them). He batted Jim's hands away. "Jim. Wait. Groceries. Give me a minute, okay? The ice cream —"

The rest of the sentence died in his throat. Noisily, with a groan. Or maybe it was a whimper; Jim's hands were back. 

Blair tried again. "The ice cream…" 

Jim's eyes were glinting, the kind of glint that meant either "Danger, Will Robinson" or "Sex. Now." Or both. The hand that had migrated below Blair's belt level did something really unfair, and Blair groaned — whimpered — again. 

"Forget the ice cream," Jim said, in that same warm — _hot_ — growl ( _what_ ice cream?). "First things first, Chief."


End file.
